


In all my Dreams I Drown

by SilverWing15



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe age of sail, Amorality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Lotor, Hurt/Comfort, I would really like for everyone to be friends, Lotor isn't really a good guy, Nice Lotor, No editing either, Not really a lot of plot tbh, Shades of Grey, So much hc, There might be a sequel coming though, Wingfic, Zarkon isn't evil either, and that was so self indulgent, because i am trash for it, but he's not exactly bad either, even more than the last one, grey morality, like not even a little bit, like wow, look - Freeform, no beta we die like men, so self indulgent, sorta - Freeform, this is really really self indulgent, which is really odd because that didn't happen at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 20:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWing15/pseuds/SilverWing15
Summary: “My name is Lotor.” The man says, “and you're aboard my ship. We found you on a pirate vessel and rescued you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise you that none of us mean you any harm.”Or: A year ago, Shiro was kidnapped by the strange beings that live beyond the shores of the Altean isles. They plucked his wings and broke his spirit. He escaped and returned home to warn the others, but Lance was still captured. He is rescued from pirates by the mysterious Prince Lotor.EDIT: apparently AO3 didn't save all my formatting :( the giant text wall should be fixed now, sorry.





	In all my Dreams I Drown

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many notes I'm sorry. So first off, this was meant to be done /months/ ago, but life happened and at least its done now. It was also meant to be longer, but I decided to just get it finished and call it good, so apologies if it's a bit rushed. I also wanted to get this out before season six wrecked all of my Lotor headcanons. 
> 
> There is a lot of room here for a sequel, but I'm not sure that I'll ever get around to writing it. I'm mostly focusing on my own original writing now, (my first novel is at the editors right now squee) so if anyone wants to take a whack at it just let me know.
> 
> There's a bunch of bonus worldbuilding that was meant to go with this that I'll put in the bottom notes for anyone who wants to read it.
> 
> EDIT: 3/18/2019 , I'm kind of toying around with the sequel and I kept noticing typos and such as I read through so I figured I'd fix them. Nothing should be majorly changed.

****

 

His head pounds in time with the beating of his heart, Lance cradles his skull in his palm and tries to do something besides stew in his own misery. His lips are cracked and bleeding, his tongue seeks out the iron flavor of his blood and he swallows it with a grimace. It's probably unsanitary at best and actively bad for him at worst, but it is the only fluid he has left.

 

It hurts to swallow, but that isn't saying much, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to _think_. It won't hurt for much longer, though, he thinks, and if he weren't so exhausted, he would shudder at the thought, but he's grown used to that way of thinking. The end is in sight, and death isn't something he thinks of as an enemy anymore. Death would be welcome at this point.

 

He wonders if the White Lion will be able to find him, so far from Altea or if his soul will be doomed to wander the Other's ship for all of eternity. He mouths the words of a prayer, just in case, perhaps the Blue Lion will hear him, his patron is mistress of the sea, after all.

 

He was proud to serve the Blue Lion. He had dreamed of being chosen by Red or Black, as all young chicks do. As he grew, he'd grown to love his patron, as she loved him. By the Lions, he wishes she were here now, to let him take shelter in her steady warmth, to rasp her rough tongue over his hair the way she had when his father died.

 

The ship creaks and groans all around him, a familiar call and answer of rusted metal and straining wood. Lance takes comfort in it now, but in the beginning of his captivity, before he'd learned the pattern, the sounds had made him nervous. He hadn't known then which sound signaled one of the Others on approach. He knows now, of course, but he hasn't heard that symphony of groans in a long time.

The Others are gone, lost to the storm or to starvation and dehydration. They had been so _angry_ when the storm came, convinced he'd summoned it up to punish them for capturing them. They'd tried everything to get rid of the curse, cut him, burnt him, plucked his feathers. Some had even wanted to cast him overboard, cage and all.

He supposes that this is a victory if he looks at it right. He isn't really sure if he's _won_ , but he has lost last, so perhaps that counts. He's still going to die though. He hopes that the White Lion-no, he's already thought that, already sent a prayer to Blue to find his soul. He wonders how many times he's prayed to her for that. It's hard to keep his thoughts straight.

 Lance gazes at the body of the last crewmate where it slumps across from his cage. It is starting to smell, already, in the sweltering heat of the cargo-hold. Flies buzz around the blank yellow eyes, staring forever into the middle distance.

His wings ache with the memory of rough hands ripping out his feathers, this man had been the one to hold him down while the others did their work. Lance's lip curls and a fresh spike of pain shoots through him as his lips crack even more and blood once again coats his tongue. His wings, once resplendent, a point of pride, are tattered and abused, the feathers that remain are ragged and if his mother could see them he thinks she would burst into tears.

He doesn't really know what the Others want with feathers, perhaps it is merely greed or envy. The motivation doesn't really matter, they want Altean feathers, and they will do whatever it takes to get them.

Part of him wants to resent Shiro for that, but he knows it isn't fair. None of them had any idea what lay beyond Kerberos, and they had all wanted to know. Shiro had simply been the one to go find out. He had returned with wings even more ragged than Lance's are now and tales of purple giants.

 _Thunk-groan_.

Lance squints into the darkness, trying to get his brain to stop replaying the image of Shiro's scarred, desperate face. That was something new, wasn't it? Something different. Lance thinks he should probably be wary of it, but he can only summon up apathy. Whatever it is, it won't matter for long. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine himself back home, sitting down to dinner after a long day out on the boat. His family all around him, smiling and content, the smell of food, the taste of juice on his tongue instead of blood.

_Distantly, he might hear the sounds of footsteps on the deck above him, and then on the stairs leading down to the hold._

His sisters would be bickering, just like they always did, his mother would be trying to corral them to the table, his brother would share a look of nostalgia with Lance, remembering the time when they were the ones causing chaos.

_There might be voices, coming closer, speaking in the rough tones of the Others._

His father—because what's the point of living in a fantasy if you can't have everything—would be watching with poorly concealed amusement. When the girls darted past him, he would scoop them up, one on each knee and wrap them up in his powerful wings. His mother would glare, but she wouldn't really be angry.

_“Get the Prince” A voice might say, from a great distance._

They would have fresh fish and dates, wrapped in banana leaves and cooked in the sunken fire pit in the center of the room. The worn cushions that were thin from years upon years of seating his family on the floor all pushed close together. After dinner, his father would tell the ancient stories that his grandfather had told him. Tales of the Lions, tales of ancient warriors and explorers that had inspired hours of play when he was little.

_The iron door of the cage might squeal protest when it opens, and a shadow might fall over him, but Lance is too far gone to care._

His mother reaches out and cups his jaw with one hand. Her fingers are so warm, so real and he leans into the contact with a longing whine that tears at his throat. “Shh, it's alright.” His mother's mouth moves, but it isn't her voice that meets his ears.

Lance cracks his eye open, in the dim light, he can see someone leaning over him, too big to be his mother or anyone he knows. _No._ He doesn't want to go back to reality, it hurts in the real world. He throws himself back into the fantasy. One last evening with his family, its almost over, then he can say goodnight and go to sleep. He catches his sisters in a great hug and feels his eyes burn, there are no tears, though, he's too dehydrated for tears. “I love you.” He tells them, “I'm sorry I won't get to see you grow up.”

They're crying too and he wishes they wouldn't, so they stop. He embraces his mother next. “Thank you, for everything.” He whispers into the top of her head, he'd been ecstatic when he'd gotten taller than her, but now he wishes he were short enough to tuck himself beneath her chin and be wrapped in her wings.

 

_“Come on, drink,” The voice says, low and desperate, something drips on his mouth, wetting his lips._

 

His brother and Hunk are next because he can't sleep without saying goodbye to him. And Keith, even Shiro. Shiro is the one who steps up last. “I'm sorry.” He says.

“It's okay,” Lance says, because it is, he isn't going to ruin his last moments by holding onto meaningless anger. He turns to his father, he's waiting by the door, one hand pushing aside the curtain. Beyond it, there is only light.

“Its time to go, son. You'll see them again, I promise.”

Lance takes his hand and walks to the door. A lion roars, it is a sound of power, of fury, and Blue springs from the light. The house should be too small to hold her, but somehow she has room to pace in front of the door, the black ruff along her spine bristled.

“I want to go.” He tells her, something pleading in his voice. “Please, I'm so tired, just let me rest.”

She roars again and stands between him and the door, between him and his father. Lance falls to his knees, the sound of her roar becomes the wash of ocean waves against the ship. She is fading, the vision is fading, blurring and melting into cruel reality.

“No, please!” he begs and her ghostly outline stalks across the floor of the cargo hold and he feels her warm breath across his face as she licks him. A low rumble rises from her chest, somewhere between a growl and a purr and he understands.

 _You will return to me._ An order and a promise.

He swallows, and for the first time in a long time, it isn't a painful dry swallow. Water rushes down his throat and into his belly, its warm and musty, with the unpleasant taste of alcohol laced in it, but its water. More follows it and Lance gulps it down.

Someone lifts his head to give him a better angle. “That's it, there you go.” they sound relieved and a bit disbelieving. “Slowly now,” they caution him and the flow of water slackens a bit. Lance whines, it's still painful, but not as bad as it was.

“I know,” the person says, “but you don't want to make yourself sick. You can have more, just let that settle.” A hand combs over his hair, pushing it out of his face.

“Do you think he'll live?” Someone else asks, another unfamiliar voice, but Lance can't bring himself to care while the water is still there.

“It's a good sign.” The first voice says. “We'll see how well he does. Let's get back to the ship.” Powerful arms lift him and he has the sense of being carried. He thinks he should protest, or at least try to shift into a position that is a little more comfortable for his wings, but he's still weak and it's easier to be still.

Voices murmur and rise around him and there is a sharp crack in the air that makes him flinch, but the hands return and the voice says. “Hush now, you're alright.” Then a door closes and the sounds of the sea fade. Footsteps thump down stairs and another door opens, then he's on something soft and warm. A pillow beneath his head, blankets pulled up beneath his chin. “Rest,” the voice says, and it's been handing out some pretty good advice lately so Lance obeys.

 *** 

He drifts between dreams and the waking world. Sounds and sensations float through him, blurring the line between the two until Lance isn't sure what is real anymore. Perhaps his mother is sitting beside him while he's sick, but maybe it's one of the crew that kidnapped him, watching him with greedy yellow eyes. Maybe he's back home, maybe he's been taken into the palace of the Others, where Shiro was kept. Maybe he's in the temple of the White Lion and the high priestess, Allura is preparing his body for cremation. Maybe the White Lion himself presses his great nose to Lance's forehead and they journey together, past the realm of mortals and out into the stars.

He opens his eyes and there is a curtain of white hair before him. Lance reaches out to bury his fingers in the great mane, but his hand is so heavy. The Lion turns, and it isn't a lion at all, its a man. His face is fine and narrow like an Altean, but his skin is purple. Lance thinks that must mean something, he thinks he's supposed to be afraid, but that sounds _exhausting_ and it would be easier to just go back to sleep.

He wakes to the feeling of a hand on his wings. A whimper rises in his throat and he tries to pull away, but his body must weigh a thousand pounds. The hand pulls away, but he can still feel the warmth radiating from it as it hovers over him. His remaining feathers are pressed tight against his wing, and he shudders. The warmth draws away and a voice says, “very well, I won't touch.”

Lance swallows hard and reaches out, somehow he knows the water will come before it does. He gulps down a few mouthfuls and even that is exhausting enough to drive him back into dreams.

Voices draw him back to reality and Lance follows them without really meaning to. One is the familiar voice, the one that has been near for some time, he isn't really sure how long it has been since he first heard it. The other is a lighter voice, female, he realizes, which must mean that the familiar voice is male.

“How is he doing?” The woman asks.

“Better than I expected.” The man replies, his mind wants to attach a name to the voice, but it lingers just out of his reach.

“What will you do when he is well again?” The woman asks. “You can't sleep in your chair forever, and I doubt he would want to share the bed.”

“We're not putting him back into a cage.” The man growls. Lance wants to cower at the mention of the cage, but his body is still far away.

“I wasn't suggesting that we do.” The woman replies.

“Then what?”

“I'm not sure, I just thought you should come up with something. Before you permanently damage your spine.”

The man laughs softly, “you're probably right. For now, a spare bedroll will do.”

“I'll get it myself.”

“Thank you Acxa.”

“Of course, my prince.”

Lance drifts away again.

 ***

There is something in his mouth. Liquid, but not water, it's thicker and far more unpleasant. Lance coughs and tries to spit it out. “No, I know it doesn't taste good, but you must swallow.” A large palm covers his mouth, tilts his head back so that the liquid runs to the back of his throat. His swallow reflex threatens to revolt, but Lance restrains it through sheer force of will.

His fingers rise to find the wrist of the hand and he tries to pull it away. He may as well be trying to move the entire island of Oriande for all the good it does. He makes a protesting noise, tries to get the person to understand that if he swallows whatever this is, it's going to come back up.

“You can have a drink right after, come on now. Just swallow.” Warm fingers massage his throat and the liquid goes down against his will. Lance gags and tries again to pry the hand away.

This time it goes and it is quickly replaced by the rim of a cup. Lance swishes the water around his mouth before he swallows it, trying to get rid of the aftertaste. “There's a good fellow.” The voice says. “Now how about some soup? Hm?”

The cup disappears, but it is replaced by a spoonful of warm salty broth. Lance hovers somewhere between awake and not and allows the familiar voice to feed him mouthful after mouthful. It's warm and before too long, he's full and content in a way he hasn't been in far too long. Lance sighs happily and lets himself drift. The world is soft and quiet. At the edge of his awareness, he wonders if he's been drugged, but that isn't a nice thought and right now everything is so _nice_.

Lance hums contentedly and a warm chuckle answers him. “You're doing much better now.” the voice says, “you may just make it.” A hand brushes through his hair, and there are no tangles for it to get caught on. Lance doesn't remember the last time he was able to brush his hair, it's nice that it's been done for him. He presses up into the kind touch and lets himself go back to sleep.

He thinks that this happens a few times, more than once, maybe. The foul tasting liquid followed by warm broth and the kind voice coaching him through all the time. Sometimes he tries to ask the voice a question, but it always hushes him. “Your throat is still healing, little friend, let it rest.” Lance obeys because it is easier that way. Talking would be a lot of effort.

As the times go by, the fog becomes thinner. Lance blinks up at the ceiling and tries to think. He can remember being afraid, of what, he doesn't quite remember. He blinks hard, trying to focus, but it's hard, his eyes keep wandering around the room aimlessly and he gets distracted by the things on the shelf. There is a painting of a woman facing the bed, her skin is purple, which is odd, but she is beautiful. Her hair is white, like Allura's. He wonders if she's a priest, too.

Then suddenly there are eyes looking into his. Lance blinks, he'd thought it was a painting, but was the woman actually in the room with him? She must be very small.

“It is time for another dose.” It isn't a woman's voice, its a man's. Oh, the man. Lance frowns, he doesn't want to go back to sleep. “None of that.” The man says, a hint of humor in his voice. “It will do you good.”

He's offering the spoon again, and Lance can smell the...medicine? The man said it was a dose, that was what you said about medicine, right? He doesn't want to take medicine, he doesn't think he's sick, though his throat hurts.

Lance turns his head away. He'll take it in a bit, he was trying to think about something and the medicine makes it hard to think. What was it? Something about the man, or about the room. He remembers being scared, but what was he scared of?

“Come now, don't be stubborn.” The man murmurs, and he reaches out to turn Lance's face back to the spoon. Lance raises a hand to ward it off, but the man grips his wrist gently and guides it back to the bed.

What had he been afraid of? There are memories lurking at the edge of the fog, just out of reach. Voices shouting, laughing, but not in a good way. Not happy laughter, cruel laughter. Yellow eyes flash in the dark, glaring, gloating, angry. Why were they angry?

He'd bitten one of them, that was why they were angry. Yes, but why had he bitten someone? That wasn't nice. No wonder they were mad.

No, he remembers now, they'd been mean first, so he'd bitten them to protect himself. To protect his wings. They were coming for his wings. Lance shook his head, trying to clear it. They were coming for him, they were going to clip his wings and he wouldn't be able to fly away.

The spoon comes closer to his face, but now it looks more like a great pair of shears, his wings are pinned beneath him. Lance whines and tries to scoot away. He's tangled in the blanket again, he keeps remembering, fear and pain and the endless days in the dark, waiting for more fear and pain.

“Sh, you're alright.” The voice says, he knows that voice now, it's one of the Others. “What's the matter? I know it isn't pleasant but it will be over in a second.”

No, it won't be over, they keep coming back, hurting more, taking more. Lance wants it to be over, but it keeps going. He sobs and tries to shove the man away, it doesn't work.

“My prince?” A new voice says, there are always more of them. Always outnumbering him even though he probably couldn't beat even one of them in a fight. He's not a warrior, he's just a fisherman, and he wants to go home.

“Another nightmare.” The man says, “help me hold him.”

Large hands wrap around his shoulders and he's sat up. His wings flutter and flare, but he can't seem to control them, like they belong to someone else. A warm body suddenly appears behind him and his wings are pinned again, this time by a solid chest. He can feel the roughness of the man's clothing. His wrists are captured in one hand and pulled to his lap, he can't fight, he can't flee. He whines high in his throat, he doesn't want this.

“Plea-”

“Shh,” the man says, and his hand runs through Lance's hair again, then it pins his head against the man's chest. He can't turn away from the spoon that invades his space, all he can do is press his lips shut. Lance kicks feebly, but one of the man's legs wraps around his and then he's pinned there too.

“I can't get his mouth open.” Its the woman, the one wielding the spoon with the drugs. He can see her, just in front of him, her skin is more blue than purple, her brow is creased in concentration, her eyes serious.

The man's chin rests on Lance's forehead. He pries at Lance's jaw with is now free hand and manages to get it open. The spoon darts forward and into his mouth. He nearly gags at the taste, but he doesn't have time to spit it out before the man is holding his mouth closed. Lance tries to thrash, but he's pinned and weak and its really more of a wiggle than anything.

The man tilts his head back. “Swallow.” He says, voice quiet and calm, but commanding. At this angle, Lance can see his yellow eyes, staring down at him gravely.

Lance swallows without really meaning to. It doesn't take effect immediately, but he slumps, there's no point in fighting anymore. They've won, they always win. The man's eyes soften.

“That wasn't so bad, now was it? Some water, Acxa, please.”

Lance allows the man to tilt the glass to his lips. By the time the cup is running empty, he can feel the drug taking hold. His body drifts further and further away from his mind, he's lying limp against the man's chest now, listening idly to the words that float around him.

“Do you still think he'll make it?” The woman, Acxa? Right? Says.

“He's doing fairly well. It is actually a good sign that he was able to fight as much as he did.”

“And when he gets better and his first instinct is to try and kill us all?”

The man snorts delicately. “Please Acxa, he wasn't trying to harm us, only get away. I don't dare consider what those pirates did to him. I hope that with time he will grow accustomed to my presence and feels no need to fear.”

Lance doesn't think that is very likely, but he can't remember why. It is easier to fall back asleep than try and figure it out.

 ***

He isn't sure how long it is before he wakes with any sort of mental clarity, but eventually, he does. He is lying on his back, for some reason, his wings are already prickling with pins and needles so he makes himself turn over onto his side. He stares at the wooden wall of the ship for a long time until he realizes that for once, there aren't bars between it and him. Then he stares a bit more trying to figure out what that means.

_There are no bars...so there's no cage._

Lance sits up so fast his head spins and his stomach threatens to rebel. His feathers are bristled, wings flared to take him up and away should he need to. There's no way he would be able to fly, even if he wasn't inside some sort of room.

The blanket falls away from his chest and he realizes he is naked. It takes him another minute to realize that is something he should probably be upset about. Then he thinks that technically he isn't naked, because he is covered by cloth, and isn't that basically what clothes are? Just cloth to cover yourself with?

Then the door opens.

Lance stares at that for a minute too, he's pretty sure he's _definitely_ supposed to be upset about that, but its hard to think. Then the man appears. He's taller than Lance by a good foot, maybe more, his hair is almost as white as Allura's, but his skin is purple. He is Other, Lance realizes. Something in his brain goes _click_ and suddenly he's thinking too fast, moving too fast.

He's scrambling back, his wings are beating the air, he's screaming, he has to get _away_. The Other seems taken aback by this, but all too quickly, he's coming forward, his hands are rising, he's reaching toward Lance. _Move move move._

Lance throws himself to the side, cool air brushes over his skin, but the blanket doesn't fall away completely. He's tangled in it, like a fish in the net, just waiting for the fisherman, the hunter, to come and claim him. He's thrashing, and it's just as useless as the fish, he needs to get up, he needs to _fly. Get away get away._

Some part of him is praying to the Red Lion for strength, for courage. Another part is telling his legs to move, to get him up off the floor and launch him into the sky. His legs are doing their best to obey, but the blanket is just getting even more tangled around him. He twists, and his head crashes into the wall. He doesn't even feel it, he's too focused on getting _up_ he needs to get up.

By the Lions get up.

The man is coming closer, he realizes, and he thrashes harder, his wings and his head are pressed against the corner of the room and that makes his panic rise to new heights. _Trapped trapped trapped. Can't get free, can't get up, no space to move, no sky to flee to._

His heartbeat is a low hum in his ears, going so fast he can't even differentiate one beat from the next. The Other is speaking, his hands are reaching, always reaching. The Others are so hungry, so greedy, they take and take and take. He has nothing left to give, can't they see that? Can't they be satisfied with everything they have gotten from him? Why do they always need _more_?

The man is shouting now, he's turned away from Lance, back to the door. Some part of him recognizes the words and he knows the Other is calling for reinforcements. _Nononononono._ Lance bucks and his head smacks into the corner _again_. He feels it this time and the high sound coming from his mouth stutters for a second. He realizes he's screaming, but he can't make himself stop.

He wants to stop, he wants all of this to stop, but it just keeps going. Pounding feet, raised voice, more faces, more hands, more Others. Reaching reaching always reaching. Always taking.

His chest is heaving, his eyes are so wide he can feel reflex tears burning at the corners. He's still screaming, its too loud, everything is too loud, too much. He wants it to stop. He wants to go home. The Others are crowding closer, they're talking, but he can't understand the words anymore, its just more meaningless noise. Its so loud.

The man lunges and Lance's scream climbs even higher, he can feel his throat shredding with the effort of it, but he doesn't care. There is another blanket in the man's hands and he spreads it over Lance's head, his wings are tangled now, his arms, part of it tightens over his throat. Another net, he's helpless, blind, he can't even see the Others any more, but he knows they're there. Coming closer, ready with chains and cages and whips and knives.

Arms materialize from the darkness and wrap around him, draw him closer to the solid wall of a chest. He twists and bucks, but the arms don't loosen, they pull him tighter, a long-fingered hand rests on the back of his skull, controlling his head. Instinct tells him that fleeing and fighting are ineffective, his only hope of salvation is to freeze. And so he does.

His teeth ache with the pressure from his jaw and his muscles are locked tight, he couldn't move even if he tried. He's breathing in great gasping sobs, the fabric of the blanket pulls tight to his mouth with every inhale. He isn't even screaming anymore, he's beyond that now, his mind is empty of everything but the fear and the urge to hold still. Don't draw attention.

He becomes aware that the man is speaking to him, his voice low and gentle. An endless stream of meaningless platitudes. “Shh, shh, you're alright, I'm not hurting you, see? No one wishes to harm you, you're alright. That's it, that's it, just calm down. You're going to hurt yourself like this, just calm down.”

Electric fear dances up and down his spine and Lance flinches, but he can't move beyond that. Trapped by his own instincts just as much as by the blanket. Hot tears burn at his eyes and fall down his cheeks, absorbed almost immediately by the blanket.

“My prince?” Another voice says. Lance gives an aborted jerk, but the man, the prince?  Hushes him quickly and holds him tighter.

“Shh. That's just Acxa, she won't hurt you either. None of us will, you're safe here.”

Lance whines, and it hurts his throat, but its all he can do. He's quickly becoming exhausted, he can feel sleep creeping around the edges of his mind, but he can't afford to rest here. He has to stay awake. He draws in a shuddering breath and lies still. Testing, waiting for anything to set off the panic again.

“Now, you need to get back to bed.” The man says and he shifts his grip enough that Lance almost thinks he can get free. He bucks and twists, but the man's arms are a living cage around him. “Steady now, there's no need for all of that. The bed is more comfortable than the floor, believe me.” He stops until Lance is still again and then he stands.

The blanket falls away from Lance's feet and his toes brush cold air. A shudder works its way up his body, he's suddenly cold, shivering from cold and fear, waiting for the pain to come. “Steady.” The man intones again and then Lance feels the bed beneath him. The man starts to draw away and Lance lunges up, but he's pinned by his shoulders. His wings are tangled in the blanket and trapped beneath his own body. His breath comes faster and harder, but he's so tired now. He can't even gather the strength to try and lift his head.

“There now, isn't that better?” The man asks and he pulls the blanket back over Lance's feet. “Go back to sleep, I'll be right here, I'll make sure nothing happens to you, alright?” No, it's not alright, but Lance can already feel the darkness dragging him down and he doesn't really have much choice in the matter.

 ***

When he wakes again, it is dark, there is a thin ray of moonlight stretching across the room, just enough for him to make out vague shapes. He can remember, dimly, waking here before, the Others trapping him in blankets. He sits up, peering into the shadows as though the Others will be lurking in them, just waiting for him to wake up.

There is a large squarish blob to his right that might be some sort of self or cabinet, and perhaps a desk, and a chest at the foot of the bed. Cautiously, Lance lowers a foot to the floor, the boards creak quietly, and he freezes. He waits for a long moment, but nothing happens so he shifts more weight to the foot.

Something rustles in the dark and suddenly there is warm breath on his ankle. He jerks it back up to the bed as quickly as he can manage, old childhood fears of things under the bed crowding in his mind. But no, that would be ridiculous, and besides, the air hadn't come from under the bed, but beside it.

Lance peeks over the edge and in the pale light, he can make out the shape of the man. In the shadows, his skin merely looks pale, not purple, and his hair looks like it is made from spider's webs, thin and shining. Lance scoots away from the side of the bed as quietly as he can, freezing at every sound. The man doesn't wake up, but now that he's listening for it, Lance can hear him breathing.

Lance's heart slows when he realizes that nothing is happening, he's just sitting here in the dark while his enemy sleeps not a foot away. His feathers bristle and his wings want to twitch, but he makes them lie still. He swallows hard, aware that his throat is dry again, but he's certainly not going to wake the man up and ask for a glass of water.

Sitting in the farthest corner of the bed isn't really as comforting as he'd hoped, he keeps imagining the man waking silently and creeping up on him from the shadows. Lance leans forward and peeks over the edge again, the man is still there, still asleep. His face is slack and there might be a little bit of drool leaking out from the corner of his mouth.

It's odd to see one of his captors looking so vulnerable. Lance had watched the final crewman die, but that had been different, the man had glared at him until the very end, this was something else. Something fragile where he thought there was only strength.

He could kill him. The thought comes unbidden from the dark depths of his mind. Lance could kill this prince, just put the pillow over his face and hold it down. It would all be over in minutes.

But then what? Then he would have killed the Other's prince, they wouldn't just let him go on his merry way after that. The first crew hadn't tolerated him resisting them, there's no way this one will tolerate actual fighting. Killing.

Lance pulls away again and makes himself lay down facing the darkness where the Prince sleeps. He tries to match his breathing to the man's, to calm himself, to give his mind something to do. He doesn't think it would be possible for him to fall back asleep while he knows the enemy is so near, but somehow Lance's eyes slip closed and he drifts away.

 ***

The room is empty again. Sunlight is streaming in through the window now and Lance can clearly see the new cage he is being kept in. It's certainly nicer than the last one, he'll grant them that, but a cage is a cage, no matter how gilded the bars.

He can hear the Others on the deck above him. Stomping and scraping and...singing? Its nothing like the music of Altea, but it is undoubtedly music. There's a pleasant rhythm to it, where one man calls and the others answer in time.

Lance shakes his head, he needs to figure out what he's going to do right now, not critique the Other's music. He slowly gets out of the bed and stands on his own feet for what feels like the first time in a month. His knees are shaking with the effort of holding his weight, but Lance ignores them. He can rest when he's home.

Someone has dressed him again, so Lance casts away the blanket and stumbles across to the shelf. The painting of the woman is still there, but he ignores it now, he needs a weapon. There's a heavy stone on the shelf, half of it cut away to show the crystals inside, but other than that, the shelf is mostly occupied by books and a few small trinkets. Nothing useful.

Lance leans against the wall for a moment, trying to catch his breath, then he forces himself to stagger to the desk on the other side of the room. The drawers have papers and a few discarded quills that don't look to have come from Altean feathers. They haven't kidnapped him for writing utensils then, there's that at least.

His best weapon is still the rock, though, there isn't even a letter opener, despite the unopened letters in the top drawer. He doesn't think the rock is going to be a good weapon though, even lifting it from the shelf makes his arm ache with fatigue.

Lance's wings twitch with the desire to fly, to take him away from the danger of the Others, but there's no way he could fly even if his feathers weren't clipped. Flying took a lot of energy and at this point, he was more likely to get himself drowned. He collapses back onto the bed, gasping for breath like he's just raced Keith around the island.

Weaponless, he returns to the bed and stares at the door, waiting. Someone will come soon, he's sure of it, its just a matter of waiting. While he waits, he plans. He isn't Keith, after all, he knows better than to rush into this without planning.

There's no way he'll be able to get off the ship, he knows that. What he needs is a safe place to rest until his feathers grow back in. Somewhere high, where the Others can't reach him and he can take off the moment he is able. Getting back to Altea itself will be a problem, he has no idea how far away it is, or even what direction. He isn't Allura, with long graceful wings made to hold him aloft for days at a time, but he can rest on the tops of the waves if the water is calm. Even if he never makes it home, it would be better than being trapped here with the Others.

The mast, he thinks. If he can get to the mast, they would have to climb up after him and he could easily shove them down. No Other could beat an Altean on that sort of playing field, could they? It's his best bet, his only bet, but still.

Plan in place, he settles in to wait. He falls into a sort of trance, staring at the door, waiting for someone to come in. Shadows shift, slowly making their way across the room, he might fall asleep at one point, but nothing has changed when he opens his eyes so he isn't sure. He can still hear the crew, otherwise, he would think that all of this was a hallucination and he was still dying in the iron cage.

The floorboards creak and Lance snaps to attention. It's time. Silently, he slips out of the bed and waits beside the door. The handle jiggles, then turns. Lance holds his breath, he can feel his heart speeding up, his muscles tense.

The door opens. Lance catches the edge of it and slams it back. There's a solid _thunk_ and dishes clatter to the floor. Lance flings the door back open and leaps over the fallen Other. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches pale lavender skin and white hair.

He remembers what the first crew did when he tried to fight back and part of him wants to just surrender and let them do what the want. It would be less painful than punishment, but he has to get free. He can do this. He has to do this.

Lance sprints through the narrow corridor, there is a staircase at the end and at the top of that, a door that must lead to the upper decks. His muscles are screaming with the exertion, but Lance ignores them. He's going to see the _sky_ again.

His fingers wrap around the handle and the Other's voice rises from behind him. Now they will know he's escaped, now they will try to catch him. A thrill of fear races along his spine and Lance throws the door open wildly. He springs onto the deck and barely pauses to get his bearings before he's racing across the deck to the mast.

The crew is frozen for a precious second and Lance makes it a third of the way to his target before they begin to react. One giant sailor shouts to the others and then they're moving. One leaps for him in a flying tackle. Lance twists sharply away and comes too close to the reaching hands of another. He rolls and scampers past another dive on his hands and knees. He stumbles to his feet and keeps moving.

His heart is pounding, but the shouts of the sailors nearly drown it out. His target is getting closer, closer, he's almost there. Just a few more steps. He leaps aside as another sailor lunges, how many of them are there? He's too close to the railing now, he doesn't have room to maneuver, he kicks off and leaps over the heads of two sailors trying to corner him. His wings flap on instinct, but his flight feathers are either clipped or missing and he crashes back to the deck in a jarring landing.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. He needs to keep moving, don't stop, don't let them touch you. It's like a horrifying parody of the games he used to play as a fledgling with his siblings. Only this time the price for getting touched will be a lot worse than becoming 'it' this time it's life an death.

His fingers brush the wood of the mast and a triumphant smile twists his lips. He's made it, now he just has to-

A scarlet blur crashes into him from literally nowhere. His breath leaves him in a great _whoosh_ as he hits the deck and he gasps uselessly. There's a body pinning him down, he has to get up. He tries to twist and roll the person off of him, but the other sailors have caught up now, their hands are on him. Holding him down, keeping him from reaching the mast, reaching the sky. Lance feels tears burn at his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. He won't give them the satisfaction.

Raised voices are shouting around him and a whip cracks through the air. Lance flinches hard and the hands grip him tighter. He shudders, he'd known the price of failure, but somehow he isn't ready for it.

The press of bodies around him pulls away until there are only the Others holding him down left. The red blur that took him down turns out to be a woman with a long tail coming out of her head. She stares down at him with bright blue eyes and a pitying expression. Lance sneers at her.

A familiar voice rises over the clamor. The prince. The Others fall silent and Lance watches him come closer. He seems impossibly tall from Lance's position, pinned flat on his back on the deck. He clenches his jaw and glares up at the man.

“Zethrid, ” the man says, “take him back to the cabin. The rest of you, get back to work.”

Lance is hauled up by a truly huge Other with large pink ears. He pulls against his—her?—grip, but it doesn't budge. He digs his heels in and he's just dragged along after her. She tugs him back down the stairs and through the narrow corridor back into the room he'd woken up in. He can hear the prince's footsteps following after them.

Lance tries lunging backward, prying at the Other's fingers, and beating his wings as best he can in the tight confines of the hall. She only grunts and pulls him back easily as one might move a leaf. He's breathing hard now, he knows what happens when they get him back into the cage. Where he can't escape, where he is at their mercy.

A whimper wants to rise up in his throat but he strangles it before it does. He's dealt with this before, he endured then, he'll endure now. The giant steps easily over the puddle of spilled broth, then they are back in the cabin. The prince closes the door behind him and finally, she releases Lance.

He springs away immediately, the farthest place from them is the bed, so he jams himself into the corner at watches them with wide eyes. His heart is pounding even faster than it was during his escape attempt. This is it, this is where they punish him. His chest heaves, he feels like throwing up.

“Thank you, Zethrid.” The prince says.

“Of course, my prince.” The giant answers and then steps away to stand in front of the door. Cutting off his escape.

 _No way out, no way out_! His instincts whisper fearfully. Lance pushes farther back into the corner.

The prince stares at him for a moment, his face blank, then he moves slowly across the room to sit in the chair at the desk. Lance watches him settle into the plush seat, ankles crossed delicately, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers laced together in front of his chest. What is going on?

He glances quickly to Zethrid, she's still standing placidly by the door. She doesn't look like she's about to come for him again. What is this?

His mind is spinning, throwing out possibilities. They're just waiting for him to lower his guard, They're waiting for the one who will punish him to arrive. Bile gathers in the back of his throat and Lance swallows hard.

“Hello.” The man says, his voice is level and calm. Gentle, even, but that makes no sense. What are they going to do? The man rests his chin on his hands, looking up at Lance through the strand of hair that falls into his face. “I'm glad to see you awake. We have been very worried about you.”

What?

“My name is Lotor.” The man says, “and you're aboard my ship. We found you on a pirate vessel and rescued you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise you that none of us mean you any harm.”

Lance resists the urge to snort. He must give some sign though because the man—Lotor—smiles self-deprecatingly.

“I don't suppose I would believe me either.” He says. “Regardless, you will come to see it is the truth. Do you have a name?”

Lance doesn't answer him.

“Come now, I know you can speak, let us talk as two rational beings.”

Lance keeps his mouth shut. Keith would be proud. Lotor sighs and starts to get up. He's done playing nice. Lance flinches and gets ready to spring across the room. Lotor slowly sinks back into his chair, raising his hands to show that they're empty.

“I will not harm you.” he says, “I swear it on my honor.”

Lance's eyes flick to Zethrid, still by the door.

“She won't harm you either,” Lotor says. “The pirates that captured you are not a reflection of all of us.”

Lance bites his tongue to keep from calling him a liar. He's already done more than enough to get himself into trouble. Right now he needs to keep quiet and keep from getting too badly hurt. He swallows, his heart is still pounding, but he can feel it slowing down as nothing happens.

Lotor sighs again and looks sad. “I suppose there is nothing I could say to put you at ease. Perhaps my actions will convince you in time. Regardless, I must insist you stay in this cabin, if you please.”

Lance tilts his head and Lotor reads the question.

“You are my guest.” Lotor says, “but the crew would not appreciate you getting underfoot. The deck can be dangerous for those unprepared.”

Lance tries to keep his face unreadable, but he isn't sure that's something he can manage. Part of him, the part that had been molded by the others says to do as he is told, it will be less painful, less frightening that way. Another part of him—the part that sounds suspiciously like Keith—says to defy Lotor in any possible way.

“I will take your silence for agreement,” Lotor says, with a hint of humor underlying his tone. “Are you hungry? I was bringing you lunch when you...woke.”

Lance can't hold back a snort at that and the corners of Lotor's lips curl a bit. “Zethrid, why don't you bring us both something,” Lotor says and the giant woman bows.

“Of course my prince.” She murmurs and disappears into the hallway.

The door is unguarded. Lance can't' seem to pull his eyes away from it. It would be ridiculously stupid of him to try and go for it now, while Lotor is in the room and while the crew is probably still on edge from his earlier attempt. His legs still tense in preparation and his wings shift.

Lotor clears his throat and shifts in his seat and Lance's attention snaps to him. Lotor spreads his fingers, once again showing Lance that he is unarmed, as though he couldn't do plenty of damage with his bare hands. Lance's wings twitch and bristle.

Lotor seems content to sit and wait in silence, watching Lance. His eyes seem to burrow into Lance's skin like Lotor can see his very thoughts. Lance tries to ignore the feeling, it's just his mind playing tricks on him.

His legs feel ready to collapse out from under him. Between the running and the fight on the deck—if you could call it that—and the panic of it all, he's exhausted. What he really wants is to curl up somewhere safe and sleep for a month. He settles himself down on the bed, more crouching than sitting. Lotor doesn't move

It seems like Zethrid has been gone for hours, but Lotor still doesn’t talk, he barely moves. They’re both watching each other without any effort to hide the fact. Lance is waiting for Lotor to get tired of this nice act, to decide that it isn’t working and they can go back to the way things are supposed to work. Lotor though, Lance isn’t really sure _what_ Lotor is waiting for, but he has a patient air about him like he could wait for the rest of time.

Lance’s patience has always been a puddle, more than a pool. “What do you want?” He snaps, too loud, too harsh. He nearly flinches from the sound of his own voice.

He thinks that Lotor’s lips might curl briefly in a smile, but it's gone so quickly that he can’t be sure. “I apologize for staring. I have never seen a being like you.”

Lance snorts and leans against the wall. He stares at the door, pretending to ignore Lotor, but he watches him out of the corner of his eye. His arms rise up to cross over his chest and he wants to curl his wings around himself, but he knows from experience that moving them will draw attention.

“I still do not know your name.” Lotor says, “will you please tell me? I feel rather awkward not knowing the name of my guest.”

Lance stares at the door. The first crew had tried the ‘guest’ thing as well. Rollo, the captain, had liked to pretend to be courteous and polite right up to the point that the storm had broken the mast. He’d been a lot less civilized after that. Eventually, Lotor’s polite mask will shatter, too, and then Lance will have to deal with the monster underneath.

Lotor is not discouraged by his silence. “But you asked me a question, didn’t you? Very well, my only desire is that you continue to improve your health and become more comfortable here. the _Comet_ is one of the greatest ships in the navy, and of course, Captain Acxa is the finest sailor I have ever met. Is there anything you desire?”

 _Freedom._ Is on the tip of Lance’s tongue, it would be so easy to say it, as easy as it is to imagine. But achieving it is hard, and he's already broken his silence once.

They sit in the quiet cabin, the ocean and the creaking of the ship are the only sounds until heavy footsteps come towards the cabin. Zethrid stepped into the room a moment later. She has another tray with two meals on it. One is a fine meal of fish and vegetables, the other is a simple bowl of thin broth and a small corner of bread.

  “I'm afraid that the soup is for you,” Lotor says, even as Lance’s mouth waters at the scent of the fish. “Your stomach won't appreciate anything more substantial right now, though I'm sure your tongue would.”

Which is disappointing, but Lance is hungry enough that he can’t really bring himself to care. He is all ready to toss the spoon and drink the broth when the memory of the terrible tasting syrup springs up. His eyes narrow and he studies Lotor’s face.

Lotor is already digging into his fish, seemingly unconcerned with what Lance does, but Lance isn’t fooled. He knows from the tilt of his head that Lotor is watching him with his peripheral vision.

After a minute of leaving the soup untouched, Lotor asks: “Is something wrong?” There is no anxiety in his face, he doesn’t look like someone who desperately wants Lance to drug himself. Not that Lotor really needs him to eat willingly, from the vague, hazy memories that he has, Lotor has no problem with forcing him.

With that thought in mind, Lance looks away and brings the spoon to his lips. He’ll eat slowly, and only a little bit, hopefully, he won’t get too big of a dose. The broth isn’t watery like he thought it would be, the flavor is rich and even though it’s unfamiliar he closes his eyes for a moment to savor it and hums contentedly.

Lotor chuckles softly. “I employ the very best cooks I can find.” He says conversationally. “I’ll be sure to tell them that you approve.”  

Lance eyes him, but he can’t really bring himself to care while the broth is still before him. All too easily, he forgets about his fear and the bowl is empty before he remembers. Lotor finishes a moment after him and places both of their dishes back on the tray.

Lance blinks and Lotor is back in his chair, watching Lance with that unreadable expression. Now there might be a faint crease of worry between his eyes, and the echo of some other emotion Lance can’t understand. He blinks again and he finds that he has fallen onto his side, his head is on the pillow. That is very convenient, he’s tired now and he doesn’t really want to move.

Some part of Lance, the paranoid, untrusting self that was born in shadows and iron bars screams. _You fool! Get up, get UP!_  The soup. He realizes. The soup was drugged. He tries to get his hands under himself, to get up, to run, to hide, to do something. The drug is strong though, and fast. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, trying to fight it.

“You…” he slurs. He thinks Lotor looks apologetic, but there is a fuzzy blackness overtaking his vision.

“I do apologize,” Lotor says, his voice is even and smooth, not sorry at all. “I thought it would be less stressful for you if we were not forced to hold you down once again.”  

Lance shudders, but there is nothing he can do but surrender to the darkness and hope that he will wake up again.

  
***

The world is silent when he wakes up again. It is also dark, and small, and cramped. Terrible on all accounts. There are tiny circles of light that fall across his body, but those don’t really count. The world jolts and then sways, like the ship is caught in another storm. He wonders if Blue is the one sending the storms, trying to save him even though she is trapped on the island. That would be nice of her, he thinks with a smile. He goes back to sleep.

***

Before it was silent, now it is loud, too loud. There are voices that whisper, voices that shout, voices, voices, voices. Too many, too deep, too gravely. It is still dark though, still small, still cramped. Then one rises above the others.

Loud as the roar of an army, deep as the ocean itself, gravely as the shore. “My son.” It says. The other voices fall silent and Lance trembles. The voice is tired, worn, heart weary, but he knows better than to think the voice is weak. “You have returned at last from your voyage.”

“I have, father.” Lotor?

“What treasures have you brought back?”

“Many, father, valuable and rare, but none more so than this:” The world shifts again another storm? No, it can’t be, he doesn’t hear the rain, the thunder, the ocean. Where is he? What--his thoughts are interrupted when the world. No, the crate is placed on the ground again. He thinks it is meant to be gentle, but he is still jarred.

Light floods in and hands wrap around his arms, haul him up. His wings drag, his legs refuse to hold him up, he can’t see because the light is so bright. He can see vague shadows, silhouettes.

“Is that--” the powerful voice is hoarse, faint, shocked. What is going on? Lance can hear his own breathing, so fast, so harsh, he can’t make it slow down. What is going on?

Footsteps, heavy and hesitant approach. A shadow falls over him. Who--

A hand beneath his chin. It is large beyond his comprehension, like one of the great statues of the lion priests outside of the temple made flesh. He looks up into yellow eyes, they look almost as frightened and desperate as his own probably do.

He feels so small, so fragile here, before this great being. He wants to curl into a ball and close his eyes. He cannot comprehend the things that this being could do to him, but instead of crushing his skull in one massive palm, the being, the Other, touches one of his wings. The touch is so light, so gentle, so fleeting that it might have been the wind.

“Take him to the healer’s wing.” The voice is barely a whisper, but it is obeyed.

***

What must be hours later, the last of the drugs have worn off. Lance is alone once again. The room is large, and so richly decorated that for a moment he thinks that he is in the temple of the White Lion.  

Then Lotor comes in. He has the good grace to look apologetic, but Lance has no patience. He tells the terrified part of himself to stuff it and leaps from the bed. He stumbles but refuses to acknowledge that.

“What in the _name_ of the lions did you do to me?” He demands. “Where am I, what--What--” He can’t string together the words, there are too many crowding around his tongue.

“Peace, little friend,” Lotor says, holding out a hand entreatingly.

“ _Friend?!_ ” Lance didn’t know his voice could go that high anymore, but apparently so. “I--you--No.”

There is a faint smile playing around Lotor’s lips. Lance wants to smack it off, but he doesn’t trust himself to walk just yet. He settles for a glare that would have made Keith proud.

“To answer your question, you are in my home,” Lotor says, the smile slips away from his face. Lance opens his mouth, but Lotor plunges on. “I brought you here. Against your will, I know, and I am sorry. For all the injustice you have endured at the hands of my people, pirates though they were, and for the injustice I myself have inflicted upon you.”

Lance’s chest is heaving. He remembers Blue, her ghostly outline prowling through the shadows, the rumbling promise she had whispered to him: _You will return to me._ How could he ever return now? Trapped in the home of one of the Others. “Why am I here?” He means for it to sound fierce and brave. It really doesn't. 

“Do you know why those pirates were so desperate in their desire for your feathers?” Lotor asks.

Lance narrows his eyes. No, he doesn’t know, but he isn’t going to tell Lotor that.

“Altean feathers are known for one property and one property alone. Their ability to heal.”

Lance can feel his wings shifting and his brow furrowing. Somehow he had always thought the Others were merely jealous, or that they simply kept feathers for trinkets.

“My mother, the queen, is very sick. She has been for many years, ever since I was born. When the first Altean was found, his feathers healed her, but only temporarily.” Lotor looks at Lance, and there are too many things in his eyes. Guilt and hope and sorrow, all rolled and twisted together.

Lance sits back down on the bed with the weight of understanding. Shiro had healed Lotor’s mother, but then he had escaped. Now Lance is here in his place. He will never leave, he realizes, not while the queen is sick. Not while Lotor thinks Lance can save her.

“You will be treated like royalty.” Lotor hurriedly says. “No one will ever harm you, you will want for nothing, I swear it.

Want for nothing but his home, his family, his lion.

“I want to go home,” Lance says, it is broken and quiet. Hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” Lotor says. “But she is my mother.”

Lance swallows, tries to think beyond the scope of his loss. Blue cannot send another storm now. Not when he is away from the sea, away from her power. Even Lions must have their limits.

Even though he is on dry land, Lance feels like he is drowning.

  


 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS WORLD BUILDING:  
> ALTEA  
> In this universe, Altea is an archipelago of several islands. Oriande is the largest and is home to the temple of the White Lion. Here, the lions are regarded as gods:  
> White Lion: Patron of Healers and Priests  
> Black Lion: Patron of Leaders and Guides  
> Red Lion: Patron of Warriors and Hunters  
> Green Lion: Patron of Scholars and Philosophers  
> Yellow Lion: Patron of Farmers and Laborers  
> Blue Lion: Patron of Fishermen and Sailors.  
> Young Alteans have pure white feathers, but when they reach maturity, they gain markings in the color of the lion that has chosen them. If their feathers remain white, they are taken to the Temple of the White Lion, obviously. 
> 
> GALRA:  
> In this universe, Honerva is still alive and there is a hope for her to get better, so Zarkon isn't full on evil like he is in canon. He isn't exactly the best guy around, but he will treat Lance well so long as he can heal Honerva.  
> Shiro was never taken to the palace, he was kept by a group of Druids and his feathers were sold as way high prices. When he escaped, Lotor was sent out to find another Altean.  
> That's all I can think of for now, but I might add on more later. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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